


A Little Bit of Truth

by lastdream



Series: Revolutionary Vampires [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Canon Era, I don't know whether to call this dubcon or not, Love Confessions, M/M, Masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastdream/pseuds/lastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is so thirsty he can't keep from biting into Grantaire... who doesn't really mind, it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> For this kink meme prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=14339016#t14339016
> 
> (i've been writing on the kink meme for a while now and i'm excited to claim my work now that i have an account)
> 
> Title from Dracula:
> 
> “I want you to believe… have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck.”

Enjolras stirs in the early afternoon to the sound of pained grunting at the other side of the room. He springs up in a moment with concern, and finds Courfeyrac curled in on himself in his bed, Combeferre bent over him and murmuring lowly.

“What is wrong? Why did you not wake me?” he demands, frightened by Courfeyrac’s obvious distress. Courfeyrac’s only response is an agonized sound.

“He has been… less than careful in what he drinks,” Combeferre answers, not looking away from his lover. “If my guess is correct, his body is fighting cholera.”

“She seemed quite— quite well,” Courfeyrac manages indignantly. Combeferre quiets him with a gentle hand in his hair.

“For us such a disease is not fatal,” says Combeferre, before Enjolras can ask the question. “But it will likely take him all day and night to fight it off.”

“He seems to thirst.” Courfeyrac grunts an affirmative.

“I would let him drink, but his need for my help is greater than his need for my blood. Even the blood of the one to whom he belongs will not much speed this healing.”

“Would it ease his discomfort?”

“A little,” Combeferre admits. He probably knows what Enjolras intends, but as much as he does not want to allow it, neither will he lie to him.

“Then he can drink from me.” Both of them fix Enjolras with hard looks, but he forges ahead anyway, pushing up his sleeve and baring his teeth. “Calm yourselves. I drank recently enough, and if I thirst after, I still know how to find drink without your help.”

“Enjolras, you have no power to calm your victim,” Combeferre says gently, firmly.

“I know that,” he replies, becoming irritable. Enjolras scowls as he bites into his own wrist and offers it to Courfeyrac, who latches on eagerly despite himself. It is a sharp and awful pain that seems to spread up his arm and weaken his whole body as it goes on and on. Combeferre grips his shoulder in reassurance.

After a while Courfeyrac is able to pull back, licking blood from his lips and sighing a little in relief. “Thank you,” he says.

“It is almost time for you to leave,” Combeferre says, regaining his place by his lover’s side. He is right. Enjolras dresses quickly and collects his notes for the meeting tonight, and then bids the two of them fond adieux. As he leaves, Combeferre is mopping Courfeyrac’s brow and pressing a gentle kiss into his hair.

Enjolras does not allow his discomfort to show until he is long gone from the rooms he shares with the two of them. He had been thirsty to begin with, from the moment he woke, but it was more important to ensure his friend’s wellbeing than to worry about his own concerns. 

Much as he hates it, what he had said to them was the truth. He is capable of drinking from a victim uncalmed, if not of ignoring the cries of agony, or the fruitless struggling against his grip. It is wrong to hurt another being so, but he is capable of doing it. 

And he may have to. He has not been this thirsty for a long, long time.

The meeting is unexpectedly successful, under the circumstances. Enjolras is thirsty and he looks it, but Bahorel and Jehan are the only ones of his kind present, so most of the group do not recognize the signs. Jehan meanders over once the official meeting is finished.

“You need to drink, my young friend,” he says. “And yet Combeferre went out with you only a week ago, did he not?"

“He did, and I drank my fill of a boy he calmed with a recitation of his medical texts. I thirst now because Courfeyrac drank of me before I came here. It seems the poison he picked was cholera,” Enjolras explains.

“Do you wish to drink of me?” Jehan offers kindly. It is well-meant, but Enjolras cannot bear the thought of causing pain to this sweet and lovely soul, even knowing that he and Bahorel share blood on a regular basis.

“No, thank you. I can do for myself for a night.” 

Jehan and Bahorel are among the first to leave, returning home to spend the night’s joys in each other. The rest trickle out until at last Enjolras feels he will not be straying outside the norm to leave. Usually, he is last.

With every moment his thirst is growing, and his control is weakening. He moves faster than he ought through the shadows. His teeth have stopped obeying conscious command altogether. They are long and sharp and they follow almost without decision the sweet promise of blood rushing through warm veins.

Enjolras musters his willpower and stops himself, leaning against the wall of an alley. If he cannot control himself, it will be impossible even to approach a victim, let alone get near enough to drink. He takes slow, heavy breaths, but they do not much improve his condition.

“Enjolras?” No. No, this cannot be. Of all the people to find him now—

“Go away, Grantaire,” he hisses past his teeth. If he were thinking more clearly he would regret his harsh tone.

“Enjolras, are you alright?” As always, what Grantaire does is diametrically opposed to whatever Enjolras tells him to do; he is coming closer, looking concerned.

“I am fine. Please go.” Enjolras is pleading now. The sound of the living heartbeat in Grantaire’s chest makes him salivate, and he spares a thought to be disgusted with himself. How can he want so badly to cause such pain to this man? How can he thirst for the blood of the man he loves?

“Tell me what you need,” Grantaire says firmly. He has stopped asking, because it is obvious that Enjolras is not well.

“I need you to go, before I—“ Enjolras can barely speak anymore. He has closed his eyes to try to block out his thirst. His chest is heaving and his fists are clenched at his sides. In front of him he can sense the warm, living presence of Grantaire’s body, drawing ever nearer. “Go,” he whispers. Instead, Grantaire lifts a hand to touch Enjolras’s shoulder hesitantly.

“Enjolras, are you—“ Grantaire does not finish the sentence. He cannot, because the moment his hand made contact, Enjolras lost control.

Like a horrified spectator to his own actions, Enjolras feels his eyes snap open, sees himself surging forward and shoving Grantaire against the opposite wall of the alley. One of his hands threads into Grantaire’s hair and forces his head to the side to bare his neck. Dimly, Enjolras can hear the living heartbeat begin to race, can feel the vein pulsing under his mouth for a split second.

Then he sinks his teeth into Grantaire’s throat.

Enjolras has to force Grantaire back against the wall, because he surges up into the first shock of the bite and lets out a cry. The sound is pained and stunned and it almost pulls Enjolras out of his blind thirst, but the thirst is too great. He needs it so badly, and Grantaire’s jugular is leaking directly into his mouth. Enjolras swallows, sighs helplessly with relief, and continues to drink. His perception is limited to the sweet taste of blood.

It is several minutes before he has taken enough to be capable of coherent thought. 

Enjolras realizes what he is doing all at once, stiffening with self-disgust. Now, no longer consumed by the bloodthirst, he can feel Grantaire shuddering against him. He can hear the soft, wounded sounds he is making.

He can feel the tears soaking into his shirt where Grantaire leans against his shoulder.

Now, it is worse than it was when Enjolras was out of his mind. Now, he knows what he is doing, and he can hear every moment of pain he is causing, and he still cannot muster the will to stop drinking. Enjolras tries with all the strength he has, and manages to extract his teeth from the still-bleeding wounds, but the unobstructed flow is heady. He latches back on and sucks harder.

Grantaire jerks against him and gives a groan that tapers off into hurt whimpers. His tears are falling thick and fast, enough that Enjolras can smell the salt and hate himself for it. He tries to relax the bruising hold his hands have on Grantaire’s shoulders— that, at least, is not controlled by his thirst— but as soon as he does Grantaire makes a distressed sound and pushes against the lighter grip, and Enjolras has to hold tightly to keep him in place.

It will be no mercy if his teeth are torn from Grantaire’s neck while he fights to move.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs hoarsely. Enjolras hears him but cannot stop; he is ashamed that his only reaction to the low, yearning sound is to bite down harder in acknowledgement. 

After this Enjolras does not expect Grantaire to try to speak again, but he does. He breathes an endless string of incoherent sounds into Enjolras’s shoulder, now sounding vulnerable and pleading, now desperate and demanding, now subsiding into tremulous whimpers. Enjolras tries to drink faster and finish sooner, but it only makes Grantaire louder. He is probably loud enough that people in the street can hear him, but he is no longer fighting the grip on his shoulders. Enjolras does not understand why Grantaire is not trying to get away.

He is shaking continually, but he is clutching at Enjolras as though he would be lost without him. 

At last, the thirst begins to abate and Enjolras is able to stop drinking. He removes his teeth from the messy punctures in Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire shudders. Enjolras wants nothing more than to pull back and cease causing pain altogether, but his sense of honor demands that he not leave Grantaire in this state. 

As gently as he can, he licks up the blood around the wounds and strokes his tongue over them, helping them to seal up. Grantaire shudders again and makes a rough sound in his throat, like he is trying to speak again.

“More,” Grantaire rasps, sounding distressed.

“I will not drink any more from you,” Enjolras reassures. Grantaire shakes his head quickly, not lifting it from Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Please, more,” he begs. “Please hurt me more.”

“What?” Enjolras knows he has not heard correctly.

“Please bite me again,” Grantaire pleads. “Or push me, or hit me, or pull my hair, or scratch me, or anything— anything, just please! Please, just hurt me again.” His voice is little more than a desperate whine. “God, I’m so close…”

“I— I don’t want to hurt you, it’s—“ Enjolras licks the blood from his lips self-consciously. “It’s wrong.”

“Please,” is all Grantaire says. He sounds so needy, so helpless— Enjolras makes the decision in a split-second: he will fulfill whatever this need is now, and agonize over it later. He tugs Grantaire’s hair to force Grantaire to look up at him. The vulnerability in his wet eyes makes him sweet and lovely, even if it cannot make him handsome.

“You want me to do this?” Enjolras asks him.

“Yes,” Grantaire breathes, nodding eagerly. The movement pulls at his hair in Enjolras’s grip and makes him moan. He stares up at Enjolras like he is seeing an avenging angel, and Enjolras takes a deep, unnecessary breath to brace himself.

Enjolras wrenches Grantaire’s head quickly the other direction, baring the other side of his neck. This time Enjolras does not need to drink, so he pierces the soft flesh slowly. It draws a long, agonized groan from Grantaire’s throat, and he freezes, suddenly unsure that he has correctly understood what Grantaire wants.

“Keep going,” Grantaire begs. Enjolras bites hard and Grantaire cries out. Enjolras sucks to draw blood from the wound and Grantaire shudders violently. He is crying and shaking and clutching at Enjolras. “More, please, please—“

With sudden inspiration, Enjolras withdraws his mouth and shifts, aligning his teeth with the first punctures: four points equally spaced on Grantaire’s skin. He gives no warning before he bites down hard, teeth sinking in until his flat teeth are resting on Grantaire’s neck. At this Grantaire gives the loudest cry yet and arches his body against Enjolras. 

Enjolras gradually releases the pressure. He draws his teeth from the bloody mess and licks it clean as Grantaire sobs quietly against his shoulder.

All at once Enjolras notices a smell that had not been there a moment before.

“Grantaire? Have you— orgasmed?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says morosely, drawing back at last. Even his desperate cries and sobs did not seem sorrowful like his voice does now. Now, he sounds heartbroken. “I know you only wished for a drink. Anyone would have done, and you did not even want me. Now I have forced this— this perversion on you.”

“What?” Enjolras is still struggling to understand the fact that he hurt Grantaire and Grantaire apparently drew pleasure from that. What is Grantaire saying?

“Yes, I can come without a touch if you hurt me badly enough. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. Or with me. I know it is my fault I cannot simply leave you be.”

“Grantaire, I do not want you to leave me be. I do not want you to leave me at all.” Pieces fall into place and Enjolras understands not only what Grantaire is saying but also the decision he himself fought with.

“You told me to go away, and I ignored you. You knew that what I want is wrong and I begged for it anyway,” Grantaire sounds so confused. It makes Enjolras want to hold him and comfort him, so he does. He draws Grantaire close and wraps his arms around him.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, because it would be wrong for me to cause you pain like that. But if that pain is something you want, or need— I think if you want it, and agree to it, that must be more important… I do not think it can be wrong.” He feels the tense line of Grantaire’s body all along his own melt into sweet softness.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire mumbles into Enjolras’s chest.

“Yes,” says Enjolras. He pauses and considers something. “If you wish, I will give you a truth in trade. You have been vulnerable enough tonight.”

“I already know what you are, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He sounds like he is laughing, a little, which reassures Enjolras that he is well.

“A more important truth,” says Enjolras. “The truth that I—“

“You do not have to tell me,” Grantaire says. He draws back a little, so they can look at each other again.

“I want to.” He holds Grantaire’s gaze. “It is the truth that I love you. That I have for a while, but I did not know how to tell you, because of what I am.”

“If you dare lie to me—“

“I would not, Grantaire!”

“Oh.” He is silent for a long moment. “You have given me an unfair truth, one which demands further truths in return. Very well, I must tell you that I have loved you perhaps from the first moment that I saw you.”

“Have you?” Enjolras is full of wonderment. He reaches forward as if to embrace Grantaire again. Grantaire moves into the touch, settling himself under Enjolras’s chin. They forget, for a moment, that they are in an alley in the dark.

“If you would pay debt for that truth, I ask only that you would drink from me again,” he says quietly.

“That I would do again,” Enjolras admits, “But I would prefer to do it for you, not for debt. And sometimes, might we— do as lovers do?”

“We might even do both at once, if Bahorel is to be believed.”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras draws back, surprised. As he thinks, however, the thought gains purchase in his mind. It is not unappealing. “We might try,” he allows. “Yet all this is getting ahead of ourselves.” He leans in slowly, giving Grantaire a chance to turn away or pull back. Grantaire stays perfectly still, his eyes going wide.

Their lips meet, and it is the best sensation Enjolras has ever felt. He loves Grantaire so much in this moment, and the energy that Grantaire puts into returning the kiss shows how much he cares in return. They press their bodies together as their lips move.

Grantaire gives a shocked moan when their mouths open. He can taste his own blood, Enjolras realizes, and licks slowly over Grantaire’s tongue to share the taste. After a long while they pull apart, both licking traces of blood from their lips.

“We are in an alley,” Enjolras observes.

“Why, yes, we are.” Grantaire bites his lip, making Enjolras wish to do the same. “Would you like to come with me, to my rooms? Merely to sleep, I have already—“

“Yes, of course. Combeferre and Courfeyrac will not expect me back until tomorrow.” Enjolras carefully threads his fingers between Grantaire’s.

That night, Enjolras sleeps curled around the man he loves, and it is the best sleep he has had since before he was changed.


End file.
